ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The golden afternoon light spilled through the dusty barn window, catching the fine particles of hay dancing in the air around us. His work-roughened hands, usually so sure and capable with the tools of his trade, trembled slightly as he reached to brush a stray strand of hair from my cheek. The scent of sun-warmed wood and clean sweat created an intoxicating perfume that made my head feel light. I could feel the solid warmth of his body standing so close, a magnetic pull I had no will to resist. My own fingers, tentative and unsure, traced the line of his jaw, feeling the faint stubble beneath my touch. His breath hitched, a soft, sharp sound that spoke volumes in the quiet space between us. The world outside, with all its rules and reasons, seemed to melt away, leaving only this hushed, sacred moment. His eyes, usually so guarded, now held a raw, vulnerable hope that mirrored the wild fluttering in my own chest. As he leaned in, the space between our lips vanished, not in a clash, but in a whisper-soft meeting that felt like a final, inevitable homecoming. A single, perfect tear traced a path down my cheek, born of a joy so profound it could find no other expression.
Comments
Post a Comment